


My Hands are Yours, My Brother

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Heaven might be falling, but Dean can't think about that now. Sam needs some TLC.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after the S8 finale (my feeeeels), it's just a dose of schmoop with (hopefully) plenty of musing on the beauty of Sam's hands. I really tried to write simple hand porn. I really did, but my feelings wouldn't let me.

 

 

Dean cradles Sam’s left hand, palm up, in his own, and gently wraps the bandana around it. The cut is deep, the edges clean, and Dean knows it will be a bitch to heal. The new wound runs over the old scar, the shiny, bunched up skin where Sammy cut himself on glass the other year and picked the healing flesh open and bloody time after time to keep Lucifer out of his head.  
It probably needs stitches, because every time Sam makes a fist or spreads his fingers, it’s going to pull, the skin will part, the scab will crack and the slash will open again. At the very least he needs to clean it immediately. His brother is caked in dirt, his fingernails filthy. Fresh sweat trickles down from his hairline making tracks through the grime on his pale skin. There are dark smudges under his eyes, bruise-grey, and he’s swaying on his feet. He looks sicker than Dean’s ever felt - outside of Hell anyways, but that’s different - even with a failing heart. He hopes his brother used a clean syringe for each draught of blood, but he doubts it. Sam’s come back from the other side once, survived the Croatoan virus and a stint in The Cage and everything which came after, and Dean is fucked if he’s going to lose his brother to something as banal as septicaemia after all this.  
And then there’s the glowing, the strange fire emanating from inside Sammy, in his veins, rope-lighting just under the skin.  
“We’ll figure it out. OK? Just like we always do.”  
He tries for a reassuring smile but it feels like a rictus. So he pulls Sam into a tight hug instead and feels his face, blubbery and wet against the side of his neck.  
“Come on. Just let it go. Let it go, brother.”  
Sam’s good hand clutches at his back, balling his shirt tight and crushing Dean against his massive frame. There’s too little meat on his bones right now, but Dean’s little brother is still big and vibrant. Dean can feel his heartbeat strong in his throat, in his wrist, in his chest where they are pressed together like a car-crash.  
Dean feels giddy. It started with Sam’s confession, but he’s just made a doozy of one himself. He thinks of Sammy, on his bony knees in the broken down little church. It wouldn’t have been comfortable, but Sammy wouldn’t have wanted comfort as he whispered his sins while the King of Hell waited, mocking, outside the confessional, counting them off one by one like the beads of the rosary.  
Dean watches as Sam pulls back and he grips his wrists while the light inside him fades and Sam’s eyes soften as he dares to hope. Crowley’s bite mark is bleeding through the bandage on his forearm. Dean wants suddenly to kiss it better like they’re kids again and Sammy has a boo-boo. He thinks of Sam’s fingers, long and fine, trembling as he crossed himself, his knuckles slotted together in prayer as he wept for all the times he’d failed him, and Dean almost can’t breathe for how sorry it makes him.  
If he were a better man, he’d have let it all go a long time ago, just like he’s telling Sam to do now. If he were a better man, he’d be able to quit throwing this shit back in Sam’s face over and over. He didn’t even mean half of it. It wasn’t the kid’s fault he got duped by a demon bitch while he was out of his mind with grief, and it sure as fuck wasn’t his fault he got pulled out of Lucifer’s box with no soul.  
If Dean were a better man, he’d have accepted that Sam truly thought he was dead and had tried to move on with his life. Found a woman he thought maybe he could love. Made a home with someone else. But he’s not that man. He’s the man who can’t see past his brother. He’s messed up and very probably sick in the head, but he needs Sam alive and he needs him close. He needs him like air and he needs him to need Dean. He’s the man who broke into that cosy apartment in Cali and dragged him back into the car, into the life, away from school and Jessica and friends and all the endless possibilities in front of him because he just wanted Sam there all the damn time.  
Dean clasps Sam’s wrists tighter.  
Don’t you dare think that there’s anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you. It has never been like that. Ever. I need you to see that. I’m begging you.  
It’s out now. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Dean knows he’s never been exactly great at hiding his crazy, but he never thought the actual words would come tumbling out like that. For all his talk of saving people, hunting things, family, when it comes right down to it, Dean would let the whole world go – quite literally – to Hell in a handcart if it meant he could keep his brother. Only his brother. And now Sam knows it too.  
Sam looks down at his hands where the light is leaving his blood. Dean can’t help turning them over carefully in his own, sliding his palms over Sam’s forearms, his wrists, the backs of his hands. It’s an odd sort of peace for a moment, the two of them just watching each other carefully, letting their fingers play lightly over one another’s hands. Touching.  
We’re OK. It’s over. It’s going to be all right.  
But then Sam’s face screws up in pain, and he folds in half like a puppet with the strings cut, and Dean’s dragging him out into the night and whispering ‘little brother’ and ‘you’re OK’. The Impala is waiting, sleek and black under the light of a thousand stars. Dean looks up, sees them raining down like fireworks on the fourth of July. Like his own little slice of Heaven all those years ago when Sam was small and warm in his arms. The stars are falling.  
He cries out for Castiel on reflex, their very own angel. Deus ex machina. But Cas is not answering, just like so many times before, and Dean crushes his brother to him and fumbles for the car keys. A blaze of light crashes to earth a few hundred feet away and sets fire to the scrubby trees which surround it. Dean starts and looks up again and then he realises – it’s not the sky that’s falling at all.  
“The angels.”

Dean ends up cutting the wires on the alarm system. Kevin is a nervous wreck when they get back, every wail of the sirens seemingly knifing through his body, but the sudden silence seems to calm him a little. Dean can’t think about the prophet right now. He can’t think about Cas or the angels or what any of this means. He’s got Sam to take care of.  
He’s stopped moaning in pain and his muscles have stopped spasming, but Dean has no idea how long this respite will last. Sam lets him strip off the rank flannel shirt and his blood-caked jeans. He lets Dean manhandle him into the shower. Dean tries not to think about the way Sam’s bones are so close to the surface, the deathly pallor of his skin. He peels his own clothes off and climbs in behind his brother, trying to tell himself it’s not weird, that they used to do this all the time when they were kids. He does glance guiltily over to check the bathroom door is locked though. He knows what it would look like to Kevin.  
Sam flinches slightly when Dean holds the hot spray to the open wound on his palm.  
“Sorry, sorry!” Dean holds Sam’s wrist and keeps the water on him. “We need to get it clean.”  
Sam nods and goes gentle as a lamb when Dean moves him this way and that, lifts his arms to scrub underneath them, tilts his chin up so he can wash his hair. He holds his hand over Sam’s eyes when he rinses the soap suds out, only the fact he has to reach up to do so now making this feel wrong.  
Sam is shaking under his hands as he soaps his skin, the slope of his shoulders and the way he keeps his face turned away making Dean suspect he’s on a crying jag. Dean knows how that is. Sometimes the floodgates open and it takes a while to stem the deluge. They’ve done enough talking for one day – for one lifetime actually – so Dean doesn’t press it. He gives himself a cursory wash and shuts the water off before shoving Sam gently out of the shower and wrapping him in the grey bathrobe he hates so much.  
Dean tucks a towel around his own waist and steers Sam towards his bedroom and his memory foam mattress. He slips into a pair of sweats and an old tee and throws Sam some clean underwear and a threadbare AC/DC shirt. Sam braves a glance at him then, his eyes red-rimmed and glazed, halting at the foot of the bed.  
“Dude? Seriously? Your clothes. Your mattress?”  
Dean rolls his eyes.  
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a song and dance about it. Get in.”  
Sam shrugs off the damp robe and Dean averts his eyes while he dresses for bed, which is ridiculous considering he just had hands on every inch of his brother’s skin, then applies a clean bandage to his hand and wrist. Sam’s face lights up briefly as he collapses into bed and pulls the covers up over himself, squirming to get comfy and sighing at the softness beneath him.  
Dean goes to check on Kevin, shows him where they keep the blankets and the Scotch. Not the really good stuff though. Dean keeps that in his room. Sam is snoring lightly, mouth open and slack when he returns. He takes a slug of the single malt before sighing and sliding into bed next to his gangly brother.

A sense of time is elusive down in the bunker with no natural light bleeding through for guidance, but Dean supposes he’s been out for a couple of hours when he’s woken by movement next to him. His body tenses as he comes to, ready to spring out of bed and tackle whatever’s climbed into bed with him, but then, as the shroud of sleep falls away, he remembers it’s just Sam. He’s chucking out some serious heat, and Dean is covered in a film of sweat, but when he grips the edge of the sheet to pull it off he finds it soaked through.  
“Gross.”  
Dean fumbles for his mobile and thumbs it on, illuminating the space in front of him. That’s when he sees that the sheets aren’t soaked with sweat. There is something dark and sticky on them, on him. Smeared down the front of his t-shirt. Blood. Sam’s blood. He tamps down the panic he feels bubbling up and shakes Sam awake gently before getting up and turning on the light. It looks pretty bad. Sam has pulled the bandage off and there are red streaks and dark, crusty patches all over both of them and the bedding. Dean’s shirt is stuck to his skin with dried blood where Sam’s hand must have been resting when the wound started seeping again, right over his heart. Sam is blinking at him now, sickly pale and shiny with perspiration, damaged hand held up to block out the harsh overhead light.  
“Sorry, Sammy. I didn’t wanna have to wake you, but we need to stitch that hand.”  
Sam looks at himself properly for the first time, takes in the stains everywhere and nods slowly.  
Dean retrieves his medipack and the whiskey. They both take a few swallows but Sam still winces when Dean pours rubbing alcohol over the raw cut. He carefully wipes Sam’s palm with cotton swabs and starts the suturing. Sam watches intently while he works, no doubt waiting to chide him if the stitches aren’t small or neat enough. Dean works quickly to minimise Sam’s discomfort, only looking up when Sam’s warm breath tickles his face. His brother is smiling.  
“What?”  
“You poke your tongue out when you’re concentrating. Always have.”  
“Do not.”  
“Do too.”  
Dean ties off the thread, leaning down and nipping it with his teeth, his nose pressed into the cup of Sam’s hand. He smells the rusty tang of Sam’s blood under the ethanol. Before he can retreat, Sam’s other hand is pressed gently to the side of his face. Dean’s belly feels like he’s plunging from a great height. Long, delicate fingers graze his cheek, trace his hairline, gently fan his eyelashes.  
Dean sighs into Sam’s hand, and before he can second guess himself, he drops a light kiss on the stitches before raising his head to take a look at what’s going on with his brother’s face.  
Sam is watching him, doe-eyed and lips parted. The worry lines have eased from his brow, and there’s something decidedly unbrotherly about the way he’s looking at Dean. His pink tongue darts out and wets his lips. Dean mimics the gesture unthinkingly. Sam is still holding his left hand out flat and his good, right hand up, two fingers extended like a priest about to make the sign of the cross. Dean feels flayed. He drops his gaze, studies Sam’s hands, frozen in position.  
They are big – huge actually – but elegant too, the fingers finely tapered and large-knuckled. Dean remembers how tiny and chubby they used to be, when Sam was a baby and he’d curl his whole sticky little fist around Dean’s finger. He remembers watching Sam strip and rebuild a gun once he was old enough, how he started thinking of Sam as a man and not a child. He remembers those hands pinning him down when they sparred, once Sam had outgrown him, the hot span of them through the fabric of his shirt, holding him in place. He remembers how Sam held them up as he smoked out demons, how broad and powerful they looked with his soulless fingers digging into the supple flesh of that hippy chick’s back the night Dean got kidnapped by goddamn fairies and walked in on them. Something stirs at that, manifesting as an electric tingle at the base of his spine.  
He thinks about how many games of Rock, Paper, Scissors he’s lost, Sam enveloping his balled-fist completely in one giant friggin’ paw. Paper beats rock, jerk!  
He remembers the sickening give as the skin split when he dug his thumb into the meat of Sam’s damaged hand to drive away the devil. You gotta make it (make me) stone number one and build on it.  
He remembers his confession earlier. He remembers Sam’s broken voice.  
Who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel?  
Dean feels a phantom throb in his shoulder when he recalls how tightly Sam had gripped his shoulder when he first caught sight of Castiel’s handprint seared into his flesh. He’d taken Sam’s distress for guilt at the time, but now he’s beginning to understand it was never that clear-cut.  
Sam’s good hand reaches out and touches his face again.  
“Sam?”  
Dean keeps his eyes and his voice lowered.  
The pad of Sam’s index finger lands on his mouth and gently maps the shape of his lips. Sure, it could be innocent, reassurance that they are both alive and safe for now, but Dean doesn’t think so. Sam’s confession cracked him open like an egg and there’s been a change, a palpable thickening in the space between them.  
I’m begging you.  
Some fucked-up, melodramatic part of Dean’s mind half-wonders if it was this shift that knocked the very angels out of Heaven. It feels cataclysmic enough.  
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Sam whispers. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop.”  
Dean looks up to find Sam staring at him with such intensity, it scares him a bit. He opens his mouth to say something – anything – that will get them back on solid ground, but he hesitates and Sam is on him, the soft, wet press of his mouth on his own somehow more shocking to his system than anything even Hell could ever have devised, and yet weirdly familiar. Expected. Inevitable.  
Dean kisses back. He nudges Sam’s lips apart and flicks the tip of his tongue out to touch Sam’s. It’s tentative, almost shy, but then Sam’s good hand sneaks around to cradle his skull and the sheer breadth of it, the way his hand wraps all the way around Dean’s head, the power in those blunt finger tips, the fact Dean knows there are still dark little crescents of ingrained dirt and dried blood under his fingernails, all of this makes him gasp and moan, and he licks deep into his brother’s mouth.  
It turns frantic. Sam’s nose squashes Dean’s as they tussle and he uses his teeth way more than Dean would have credited. He pulls back for air, dazed and wondering how they got here. Sam’s eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed. The colour on his cheeks, knowing he put it back there, gives Dean a strange sort of thrill. It’s still there, his innate need to take of his little brother, however big and ugly (OK – not ugly) he got, but now there’s an undeniably erotic element to his care. Dean’s not sure how long that’s been simmering away inside of him, but he suspects it’s longer than he would want to admit.  
Sam’s brow is crinkled again.  
“Dean? What do we…how do we..?”  
Dean smirks and kisses his brother again, letting his hands ride up under the soiled t-shirt, feeling all that warm, smooth skin.  
“Put your hands on me, Sammy,” he mumbles against Sam’s mouth. “Just put your fucking hands on me.”  
And Sam does. He’s trembling a little, adrenaline making them quake. They are surprisingly soft as they work Dean’s top up over his head and stroke him all over. There are calluses, grime way down in the whirls of his fingerprints, but they are soft. His nails are short and rough – clipped and bitten and ripped off. There is nothing girlish about Sam’s hands, nothing that would allow Dean to forget he was doing this with a man – with his brother. And yet there is a lightness there, a sweetness. Sam’s hands are beautiful. They are capable of terrible things, but they are safest place in the world. When Dean has to die again, when it’s his time, let it be by these hands. Let Sam be the one pulling the trigger or holding a pillow over his face. Let him die with Sam’s capable fingers entwined with his, and let his unblemished palm be the first thing he sees, waving to him when he arrives on the other side.  
Sam’s sucking on his neck, biting at his collar bone. He’s stripped off his own tee and is fumbling with the drawstring of Dean’s sweats. Dean is hard and his heart beats a steady tattoo in his hot, swollen cock.  
“God, Dean!” Sam moans and Dean looks down to see the dusky head of his brother’s dick poking out of the waistband of his briefs, sticking himself in the bellybutton and shiny where he’s leaking already.  
“Sshhh,” Dean whispers shakily. “Kevin.” He flicks a look towards the door and Sam bites his lip.  
Dean wriggles his sweats down under his ass and watches as Sam looks at his throbbing cock for the first time. His front teeth are sunk deeply into the cushion of his lower lip.  
“Touch it, Sam. Please just…I’m dying here.”  
Sam smiles and wraps his sweaty right hand around Dean’s stiff length. He pumps up and down slowly, releasing his grip to spit copiously into his palm before resuming. He grips Dean close to the head and eases his delicate skin up and down over the sensitive ridge. His hands are so big that Dean only gets a tiny glimpse of the wet head breaching the circle of Sam’s thumb and fingers on the down strokes, of Sam’s tight grasp tugging the small slit open and forcing pulses of clear precome out.  
He’s doing what he likes himself, Dean realises. We jerk off the same way. The thought makes his cock twitch, and Sam’s next strokes are slippery and wetter sounding.  
As if reading Dean’s mind, Sam uses his injured hand to lightly brush the hair on Dean’s balls, and gently roll the weight of them around.  
Dean throws his head back and tries to swallow the noises he wants to make. His own fingertips reach out to feel the unbearably soft and heated skin of his brother’s cockhead. He’s dripping, the cotton of his briefs soaked through.  
Dean has an idea. He puts his hand over Sam’s to still him.  
“Hang on,” he says. “Not yet. Get these off.” He tugs at Sam’s waistband and stands to kick his own pants all the way off. Sam’s huge. He guesses he knew that academically, but holy fuck, is he big. It brings it home suddenly, that Dean is having sex with a man. He’s been going on blind instinct up until now, but what if Sam expects him to –  
“Get up on your knees.”  
Sam is kneeling on the bed, beckoning Dean to do the same. Relief washes over him. They’re on the same page. He gets on the bed and shuffles forward on his knees, into Sam’s open arms. They kiss again lazily, trying to calm it down, and Dean feels those huge hands on his ass. He thinks about Sam’s pretty fingers, long and slim, the knuckles a little swollen from all the times he’s gone down swinging. He thinks perhaps having one well-lubed digit slipped into his hole might be kinda hot.  
“Make me come, Sammy,” Dean pants into his brother’s ear. “Bring us both off.”  
Sam pulls him in closer, fingers flexing and digging into his the muscles of his ass, until their cocks are touching. He uses his right hand to wrap around their combined girth with ease and starts to jack them off. They’re both dribbling a steady stream of fluid and it’s messy and slick and sticky-sounding. Dean rests his hand over Sam’s and feels the tiny bones under the paper-thin skin, all the sinews and veins shifting as Sam speeds up. He rests his forehead on Sam’s tacky shoulder, muffling the little grunts and heavy breaths Sam is wringing out of him.  
In a strange way, he’s almost amazed they’ve never done this before, now that he thinks about it. All the early morning boners in shared beds, all the tag-team showers they took to make sure the hot water didn’t run out, Dean hopping under the jet while Sam lathered shampoo through his overlong hair then switching, Sam rinsing while Dean scrubbed his feet. Being stuck in the back of the car for endless summer days with nothing to distract them from the stifling heat and how good the vibrations from the engine felt through the bench seat, chubbing up in their shorts. Maybe it was always there, a dark seed taking root in the back of Dean’s mind. But he would never have touched. Never have crossed that line. Sammy was four years younger and it was his job to look out for him. He would never have done anything back then.  
But now…now Sam is making the sweetest sounds in his ear, and his massive fist is about to make him come like a train.  
“Sam!”  
“Yeah. Dean!”  
“Gonna come, Sam. You’re gonna make me come.”  
“Yeah? Yeah, do it Dean. Come all over me. Wanna see you lose it.”  
And Dean does. He spurts so hard, it arcs up over Sam’s fist and lands in scrawls on his stomach. Sam wrings it out of him, milks him dry as his own orgasm overtakes him. Dean watches as he spills rope after rope onto the coverlet, rubbing his cream into their cocks, stroking them until they are both too tender to be touched. Sam loosens his grip then and laughs. He flops sideways and lies there, looking sated and debauched. Alive.  
Dean can’t help but return his smile.  
“Hey – be careful with those stitches. We should clean up.”  
Sam swipes half-heartedly at the mess on his stomach with the AC/DC tee and tosses it to Dean.  
“In the morning,” he whispers. “Kevin. Don’t wake him.”  
He sounds half asleep already. Sam holds out his wounded hand, and Dean takes it carefully in his own as he lies down. He pulls Sam’s arm over himself and tucks the newly sutured palm up against his chest. The sheets are ruined, the salt of blood and semen stiffening on their bedding and their skin, but somehow, Dean thinks, it’s fitting. It’s right. It’s them.  
He lies in the dark, listening to Sam’s breathing deepen, and waits for the nausea, the guilt, the wrongness of what they’ve done to creep in. He waits until Sam’s snoring lightly and his own consciousness is dipping in and out.  
He falls asleep waiting, his brother’s hand on his heart.

 

 

 


End file.
